In the Back of My Mind and the Core of My Heart
by HidingFromTheSpotlight
Summary: Sequel to You Fascinate Me. John is struggling to move on after Sherlock forgets him entirely. He wonders if, just maybe, they're not meant to be. Destiny disagrees. Like a bad penny, Sherlock Holmes is back in his life, and John couldn't be happier, though Sherlock is puzzled by the man's abrupt acceptance of him. But together, maybe they'll find a way to be whole again.
1. Like A Bad Penny

**HFTS: The much awaited, much anticipated, much desired and dreamed of sequel is finally here! Well, sort of. It's just this chapter for now, and I don't know when I'm going with it. But you get the picture. I doubt I've lived up to your expectations, but so many people absolutely _needed_ a sequel that I just couldn't leave you hanging. What sort of person would that make me? Oh right, an author. Anyway, y'all have waited long enough, and I had nothing better to do. Not that I'm not serious about this, it's just my life's kinda busy since it's my school career is coming to an end. I really wanted to write this for you guys, though. So please tell me what you think. I need to know I'm on the right track with this. Also, I wouldn't say no to suggestions. Like if you want to see something happen (something fluffy or angsty or just a small thing like holding hands or whatever) and I can work it in, I probably will.**

**And I'm so, so sorry it's so short, but I didn't want to go overboard with it all. If you have any questions or there's something bothering you, just PM me or leave it as a review. (Or you could message me on tumblr; a link to my blog is on my profile).**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. I'm a seventeen year old girl in Australia with only so much knowledge of the outside world.**

Chapter One: Like a Bad Penny

* * *

John sat at the table, looking about the restaurant disinterestedly. It was twelve-fifteen. Whoever this "perfect candidate" was, they weren't punctual. With every passing minute he grew more impatient and annoyed. One of the waiters seemed to think he had been stood up, and was continually looking from him to his cane with increasing pity. John thought darkly that if the man offered him one more cushion, one more free drink, he was going to punch him square in the nose. He checked his watch again, and told himself sternly that he'd give him five more minutes. Subconsciously he hoped he wouldn't show up. The idea of sharing a flat with someone was making him feel nauseous. What if they thought he was some kind of invalid and treated him like a helpless child? What if they tried to set him up with their sister? _What if they liked karaoke_? John shivered slightly, pushing away the memory of Sergeant Hughes wailing 'Learn to Fly' into a hairbrush. He hated the sadness of that memory, his last memory of Hughes before he was blown apart by an IUD. His hand shook and he balled it into a fist in his lap. That's it, he was going to leave. Screw this stupid flatmate business.

"Leaving already, Dr Watson?" a smooth voice asked.

John's head snapped up to look the man in the eyes, feeling a lump in his throat. "Um," he managed, struggling to find something to say.

"Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Sherlock Holmes. I heard you were looking for a flatmate," Sherlock said, sitting opposite to John.

"Oh." John felt his heart sinking. Of course. "You know my name?"

"Yes. My brother heard that you were looking for a flatmate, and decided to set this meeting up on my behalf. So, shall we?" Sherlock ignored the menu, even as a waiter came rushing over.

"May I take your-"

"No."

The waiter frowned and turned to John. "Sir?"

"A hamburger," John answered, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. "So… Mr Holmes."

"Call me Sherlock, please."

"Sherlock. Er, have you looked at any places so far?" John asked, looking down at the table.

"One. An acquaintance of mine offered to give me a slight discount, though I'll still need a roommate for it to be… advantageous," Sherlock said. "How about you?"

"I- I'd be happy to go with your one."

Sherlock's eyebrow quirked. "That was considerably easy."

"I'd rather avoid conflict," John muttered. "Is there anything I need to know about you?"

"I play my violin when I'm thinking, which is always, and I sometimes go days without speaking."

John repressed a smirk. If Sherlock was going to start listing his worst qualities, they could be here for a while. "Really? Anything else?"

"No, I don't think so."

John looked up, a smile on his lips. "That's all?"

"Did you expect me to be some form of slovenly layabout with an endless list of flaws?"

"Yes."

Sherlock's lips thinned, though his eyes twinkled with withheld amusement. "Afghanistan or Iraq, if you don't mind?"

"Afghanistan," John replied calmly. "Why do you ask?"

"You're not surprised."

"Should I be?"

Sherlock frowned, leaning closer. "You're a recently returned soldier. You suffered a traumatic wound that ended your military career. Your therapist says you have a psychosomatic limp stemming from your PTSD; she's right. You have a bad relationship with your brother, hence why you've refused his offer to stay with him," Sherlock rattled off.

John smiled widely. It felt good to one-up the genius occasionally. And he'd made the same mistake as last time. It was nostalgic, if only a little tragic. It seemed such a long time ago that the man had slid into his booth and slowly made him fall in love. And then he'd gotten hit by a taxi while John was nearly dying in the desert. He needed to ask himself if this was a good idea. Obviously Sherlock didn't remember him, but there was always a possibility that he might. Being away from him hurt, but would being near him be worse. If John was around him, wouldn't it prompt him to recover those memories? Or would it torment him? Could he stand to watch Sherlock struggle with his mind? If Sherlock asked him, could he answer honestly? Would Sherlock even believe him? But despite that, here they were. Together again, talking about being flatmates. That had to be some kind of sign, right? "Are you finished?" he said, nonchalantly sipping his water.

"Most people are irritated by that," Sherlock said.

"I'm not most people," John replied. He nodded to the waiter who placed his order in front of him, biting into a chip. "Though I do think your little trick is impressive."

"Little trick?"

"Mmm, you should show me more of it sometime," John said.

Sherlock didn't move. He seemed surprised at John's attitude. And he seemed unsure of whether John was flirting with him or not. "I've thought of something else I should tell you."

"Yes?"

"I'm married to my work. I am flattered by your interest but I have to warn you it won't lead anywhere," Sherlock said stonily.

"I'm not interested. I will admit one thing."

"And what's that?"

"You fascinate me." John pushed his plate away, putting down enough money to pay for his meal. He got to his feet, and smiled down at Sherlock. "Whenever you want me to look at that flat with you, your brother has my number."


	2. 221b Baker Street

**HFTS: I promise not to make a habit of using too much of the canon lines and stuff. I just need to get it a little further along before I can really diverge from the main storyline. Also, I'm very glad the story was well received. I'll also try to make this less villain-centric and more about John and Sherlock. The first few chapters might be, but hopefully not for too long. Please enjoy this little chapter, and don't forget to suggest anything you might wanna see.**

**Also tell me if there are any horrible spelling mistakes or anything I need to fix.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

**Chapter Two: 221b Baker Street**

* * *

The cab jerked to a stop, and John climbed out awkwardly, passing the cabbie some cash. He waved away the change, too impatient to wait for the man to clumsily count it out. The taxi drove away just as John heard a familiar voice. "Oh good, you made it," Sherlock called as he crossed the busy road.

John held out his hand for Sherlock to shake. "Sh- Mr Holmes," he greeted.

"Call me Sherlock," the detective replied. He jumped up the small stairs and knocked smartly on the door, rocking on his heels. The door opened almost immediately, an older woman appearing in the doorway. She smiled, pulling Sherlock into a tight hug. "Sherlock, it's good to see you!"

"Mrs Hudson, this is Dr John Watson," Sherlock said, gesturing to the doctor. He slipped past Mrs Hudson, into the hallway, and made his way up the stairs two at a time. John nodded to Mrs Hudson, noting the way her eyes lingered on the cane, and slowly made his way up the stairs. He hated stairs; they were the worst thing for someone with a bad leg. He reached the top, breathing heavily. Sherlock held the door open for him, a hint of nerves creeping into his eyes. John couldn't help but smile at that. He looked around at the interior, taking in its cluttered, messy appearance. _Sherlock must have already moved in_, he thought to himself.

Sherlock cleared his throat, standing behind an armchair. "What do you think?"

"It's nice. Very… cosy. A bit cluttered though."

"Oh, uh, yes. I, uh, only just moved in so I haven't had much chance to organise everything and my sock index has suffered for it," Sherlock babbled, hurriedly moving stacks of paper and boxes of unidentifiable contents out of the way.

John sat in a now debris-free armchair and watched the flustered detective fuss with the placement of his books. His eyes swept across the mantelpiece, stopping dead on a leering skull. He coughed, gaining Sherlock's attention, and pointed at it with his cane. "Unique choice of decoration, isn't it?"

"He's a friend. I mean- I _say_ friend but I-" Sherlock said hurriedly.

John chuckled, startling the man. It seemed Sherlock desperately wanted to impress him, as well as do his best not to drive him away. It was actually kind of cute. "Are you going to introduce us, then?" John smiled.

"Er… I never really named him. I just talk to him from time to time," Sherlock explained, his face a mask of composure even as his hand twitched.

"Call him Billy," John suggested. "Or Louis."

Sherlock stared at him, his expression a mixture of amusement, confusion, and relief. "You're not… frightened?"

"I went to medical school, Sherlock. I've seen _a lot_ of skulls." John turned his gaze to the tower of newspapers still resting on the table and picked up the most recent. He glanced at the headlines, looking for anything about Afghanistan. Sherlock moved towards the window, snatching up pillows and blankets as he went. "So, do you have any insight on this 'serial killer' the papers are raging about?" John asked, turning the page.

"It's not a serial killer," Sherlock replied absentmindedly.

"Is that a yes?"

"Ooh, those murders are horrible, aren't they?" Mrs Hudson said, bustling into the room. "Three people just vanished without a trace. Not a single body has been found and the police are at their wits end."

"They never had any to begin with," Sherlock muttered.

"Just imagine, three people completely gone!"

"Four," Sherlock said. "There's been a fourth."

The sound of the front door flying open reached them, followed by heavy footsteps up the stairs. A man burst into the flat, looking straight at Sherlock. "Sherlock-"

"What's changed?"

"You know how they never leave anything behind? This one left a note. Will you come?"

"Who's working the scene?"

"Anderson."

"No, he won't work with me."

"He's _not_ your assistant," the man said tiredly.

"I _need_ an assistant."

"Will you come?"

Sherlock sighed, turning away. "Not in a police car. I'll follow in a cab."

The man nodded, disappearing out the door. John looked from the door to Sherlock, raising an eyebrow. "Important business?"

Sherlock leapt up, pulling on his coat and scarf. He clumsily shoved a note pad and pen into his pockets. "Mrs Hudson, I'll be out late. Might need some food."

"I'm not your housekeeper," Mrs Hudson responded.

"Something cold will do. John, make yourself comfortable," Sherlock said, running out of the room.

John set aside the newspaper, looking around the disorganised flat. Mrs Hudson cleared a small space on the table and set down a cup of tea. "Here you are. So, how long have the two of you been together? It can't have been long or Sherlock would have mentioned something before now."

John, who had chosen that moment to take a sip of his tea, choked. "Wh- What makes you- say such a thing?"

"Oh no, it's okay. I'm a very accepting person, I promise," Mrs Hudson said earnestly.

"We- We're not together. Not like that. We've only just met," John told her, still coughing.

"Oh! I'm sorry. I just thought… Well, the way you two interact, it seemed very familiar."

"It's- it's fine. Really. Don't worry."

"Well, if you need anything else, I'm right downstairs." She left the room, and silence fell. John wondered whether he was expected to sleep here for the night, or if he was just to let himself out and make his own way home. The sudden dismissal stung a bit, but it was to be expected of the genius. Still, John wished they could have talked more. It was nice.

"You're a doctor," Sherlock said, leaning against the doorway and scaring the absolute hell out of John. "An army doctor, yes?"

John struggled to his feet, nodding. "Yes."

"A good one?"

John thought back to those months in the desert, putting people back together while bombs rained down only a few feet away. Not once had his hand slipped. "A great one," John said.

"You've seen a lot of… violent deaths? Brutal injuries?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head slightly.

"Yes. So many; too many for one lifetime."

"Do you want to see a few more?" Sherlock purred. Well, at least that's how John interpreted it.

There was something seductive in Sherlock's tone that crawled up and down John's spine and wrapped itself around his throat. Pushing aside his somewhat concerning lust for danger and mayhem, John brought his emotions under control. He let out a small shuddering breath, looking Sherlock in his gorgeous and mesmerizing eyes. "God yes."


	3. To Trap A Wolf and Fend Off a Snake

**HFTS: I promise the next chapter will (hopefully) have a bit more action in it and we'll reach our splitting point and diverge from the canon timeline. I am trying to make this as different as possible, though. And forgive my shitty deductions. It's kind of hard for me to plausibly string all of this together but I'm doing my best.**

**Disclaimer: No, I don't own Sherlock, amazing as that revelation might be.**

* * *

**Chapter Three: To Trap a Wolf and Fend Off a Snake**

John walked slowly, deep in thought. There had been nothing left behind except the woman's shoes, and a word scratched into the wooden floor. Not a lot to go on, but for Sherlock it seemed to be enough. He had surmised that the victim was a woman, and that she had painstakingly scratched the word with her nails. And that the word, even if it was incomplete, was Rachel. An idea had then occurred to him and he had raced off without explanation, leaving John to make his own way home. He wasn't surprised. Sherlock was very obsessive over things that interested him. But it was still very annoying all the same. A ringing phone broke through John's concentration, and he looked towards its source. A phone booth. With a sigh, he held the receiver to his ear, expecting someone that had called the wrong number. What he got instead was a veiled threat and instructions to get into a car that was waiting at the curb; the voice niggled at John's mind, though he brushed it off. A woman was inside, fiddling with a phone. She seemed vaguely familiar to John, but he couldn't quite place her. Any attempt at conversation with her was met with one-word responses and vacant smiles. When they arrived at a warehouse, John barely twitched. Briefly he wondered if he had ever crossed paths with some sort of Mafioso, but then he reminded himself that that sort of thing was reserved for television. A much more likely thought was that this was to do with the military. He had met quite a few agents and soldiers who saw themselves as the next James Bond. And it wasn't above them to kidnap people and drag them off for a chat.

"Hello, Doctor Watson," a man greeted, leaning on an umbrella. From what John could see and hear, this was no lowly military agent. He was dressed in a tailored suit, and an air of importance hung around him like smog. Apparently the government wanted to have a talk with little-old wounded ex-soldier John Watson.

"Y'know, if this is to present me with a medal or something, you could have just used a courier service. Or, I don't know, phoned me?" John said sarcastically, looking around. "On my _phone_." He shook the aforementioned device for effect.

"This isn't for an award."

"Oh? And here you had me all excited that the government was acknowledging my… what was it they said? '_Valiant sacrifice in the line of duty_'?" John levelled the man with a glare. "Why am I here?"

"Would you like to take a seat?" the man offered, moving forward a few paces.

John remained standing, staring at the man with boredom etched across his face. "Or I could just go home. There are plenty of seats there."

The man's lips thinned in displeasure and he pulled a small notebook from his breast pocket. "You're therapist thinks your psychosomatic limp comes from the trauma of war. That you were under stress, that you couldn't _handle_ the pressure. She thinks you shake because you are afraid. You should fire her."

John arched an eyebrow at him. "Really? What makes you say that?"

"Let me see your hand," the man commanded, walking closer until there was only an arm's length between them.

"I'd be happy to show you a finger," John offered, forcing a smile.

"Now, now, Doctor Watson. No need to be hostile," he tutted. He gripped John by the wrist, bringing his hand up to the light. "You're under stress right now, and yet you're hand is completely still. You don't fear the war, you miss it."

"Your point?"

"Is that what drew you to Sherlock Holmes? Or was the connection more _personal_?"

"What are you implying?" John said, his eyes narrowed.

"Nothing. It's just, you met two days ago, and you're already looking at a flat together. 221b Baker Street, yes? You're relationship is progressing rather quickly, don't you think?"

"Our relationship is as flatmates. I'm moving in with him for the sake of convenience and affordability," John ground out.

"Really? There's no… attachment? You feel no emotions for him, even after all that time you spent together?" the man said coldly.

John straightened up, his hand curling into a fist. "How do you-"

"I make it my business to know about anyone who has dealings with Sherlock Holmes."

"Who are you?" John demanded.

"An interested party. I suppose he would consider me the closest thing he has to a friend: an enemy. He might even say an archenemy. He does love to be dramatic."

"Well thank God you're above all of that," John snapped.

"Have I upset you? I apologise, that was not my intention."

"What do you want with me?"

"I want to make an offer that you will find very attractive. In exchange for a handsome sum, I-"

"No."

"You haven't even heard my request."

"I don't care. I'm not going to spy, or steal, or whatever it is you want me to do. I don't care what you offer me," John told him.

"You're very loyal very quickly, Doctor. Anthea will take you wherever you wish. Good day."

John stood still for a moment, watching the man leave. As far as he could remember, Sherlock had never mentioned an enemy. At least, not one with the funds and status to merrily abduct people off the street without fear of prosecution. Maybe this enemy was unknown to Sherlock, hanging back in the shadows, waiting to make his move. His mobile pinged as a message was received. Apparently Sherlock needed him for a reason he refused to specify. Rolling his eyes, John made his way to the car, eying Anthea with suspicion. It didn't strike him as unlikely that she might kill him and dump his body in a sewer to cover up her boss' tracks. Then again, she seemed more interested in her phone than anything else, so perhaps he was overreacting.

* * *

John stepped into the flat, feeling the gun cradled at his back. He crossed to the window to peer down, seeing the tail end of the car disappear out of sight. Turning he found Sherlock watching him from the sofa, sprawled across it so nonchalantly he might have been a cat in another life. John waited expectantly, staring back evenly. After five minutes passed without a word, John spoke up. "What did you want then? You said it was important."

"I did?" Sherlock blinked. Screwing his eyes closed, his hand worked his temple. "I did. It was… It was… Ah, yes. May I borrow your phone?"

"What."

"Your phone," Sherlock repeated, stretching out his hand. "May I borrow it?"

"You have a phone," John said flatly.

"Keen observation, John. Not exactly on my level but I'm sure you'll get there before the end of the century," Sherlock snarked, sitting up. "My number is on my website. He might have it."

John rolled his eyes, throwing his phone to Sherlock. "Who's he?"

"Don't know, hopefully this will tell us." Sherlock jumped up, pulling a violently pink case from behind the armchair and propping it against the coffee table.

"I never imagined you as a fan of pink," John said, sitting down in the armchair closest to the door.

"Funny. It isn't mine, it's-"

"The victim's."

Sherlock stared at John for a fraction of a second, his expressions shifting like waves in a storm. Finally he settled on an impressed smirk. "Very good, John. It's good to know you can keep up."

"So I assume something at the crime scene lead you to this. Her shoes maybe?" John guessed, remembering the shoes the exact same shade of this case. "Clara would have killed to have a pair like that."

"Yes, how is your brother's ex-wife? You were… _fond_ of her, weren't you?" Sherlock asked, and John couldn't help but grin at the pout on the detective's face.

"Not as fond as Harry is," John said. "And they're not divorced yet, just having a trial separation."

"Hmm." Sherlock glanced away, still frowning. "And it was the shoes, partly. I also found specks of nail polish in the floor. Flamingo Flaunt, or something like it; I'd have to check my nail polish catalogue to be sure. But her nails matched her shoes, and a woman who colour-coordinates like that would have at least had a handbag in the same shade. Took some digging, but I found the case and an umbrella in a skip two blocks away."

"Impressive. That's quite a leap," John remarked, running his eyes over the case.

"Thank you. Anyway, even if she hadn't colour-coordinated the way she did, those shoes still stand out in a crowd," Sherlock explained, throwing his phone over to John. "Apparently there's an online competition based in London concerning the most photos taken with interesting strangers."

John looked down at the screen. The picture was a full body shot of two teenagers on either side of a glamorous-looking woman. Her hair was a little windswept and her smile slightly strained, but the colour of her coat was unmistakeable. "Is there a name with it?"

Sherlock shook his head. "It was all about not knowing their identity. I've sent it on to Lestrade, though, so they might be able to do something with it."

"What about this tag?" John questioned, lifting it up to the light.

"It's been soaked through. I could only just make out the email and mobile number," Sherlock replied.

"There's no phone here."

"So where could it be, John?" Sherlock asked, looking at John with watchful eyes. Evidently, he already knew the answer and was waiting to see if John could get there too.

"It wasn't at the crime scene. You would have mentioned it if you had found it in the skip," John said, chewing his lip. "So… it's either on the woman, or with her killer."

"Exactly."

"But how would she have got it on him?"

"What makes you say it's a him?"

"Well, the case and umbrella were dumped pretty quickly. People wouldn't question a woman lugging those around, but a man might be more memorable. He wouldn't have wanted to draw too much attention to himself, so he threw them in the nearest skip he could find."

"Why not an ordinary bin?"

"Too small. The case wouldn't have fit properly in anything more than a half empty bin, and with trash day tomorrow, it's unlikely he'd have found one with enough room."

Sherlock grinned. "Nicely done, Doctor Watson. Perhaps I'll make you my official assistant. At the very least you have more observational skills than most."

John shrugged, taking his phone back from Sherlock. He paused looking down at it suspiciously. "Wait, so you texted that number, which is either with a condition-unknown victim or a killer? Brilliant."

Sherlock appeared not to hear, turning his attention away to the window. "Why did it take you so long to get here? The crime scene isn't that far away."

"Huh? Oh, yeah. I met a friend of yours," John told him dryly.

"A friend?"

"Well, he called himself your 'archenemy' but that might just be him."

"Oh."

"By his pomposity, I'd say government."

"Ah, I know who you're talking about." Sherlock glanced down at the phone in John's hand as it began to blast a pop song Harry had taken a liking to. "Don't answer that," he said.

"Why not?"

"I need to see something." The song cut off before the chorus, lying silent. Sherlock stared at it a moment longer, before smirking in satisfaction. He nodded, meeting John's eyes. "We have our answer; the abductor has her phone."

"Abductor? Not a killer?" John frowned.

"No. See, I don't think he's killing them. This man isn't afraid to show off. He leaves behind their shoes, and then posts to a message board where to find them. Why not leave a body too?"

"Maybe he's trying to be mysterious? He wouldn't be half as frightening if people knew how he was killing, or what the connection was between his victims."

"He doesn't have a specific type of victim. Judging by the shoes he's taken two males and this fourth victim makes it two females as well. The sneakers were well worn, scuffed, the type of shoes you'd see on a young man. The other man wore hand-stitched Italian leather. That means money. The first woman wore practical flats in muted tones, likely someone who is practical in day-to-day life. This fourth one wore flashy clothing and colour-coordinated her luggage, by the shade of pink I'd say media or entertainment industries. There's no reason for these people to have a connection. If he was a serial killer, he'd be more rigid. They have patterns, obsessions. This one doesn't seem concerned."

"So a spree?"

"Possibly. The first two were slow, as if he were just testing it out. He's speeding up, getting more confident," Sherlock said.

"And we just texted him and made him think he might have screwed up."

Sherlock got to his feet. "Send another message: Can we meet at 22 Northumberland Street in half an hour? I think you have my suitcase."

"Northumberland Street?"

"You know it?"

"Um, it sounds familiar. How do you know it?"

"According to my brother, I helped put away the previous owner for child pornography distribution, among other things," Sherlock said, pulling on his coat. "Have you sent the message yet?"

"Yeah, yeah, wait a second." John clumsily tapped out the message and sent it off. Looking up, he considered Sherlock's previous statement. "You don't remember putting the guy away?"

"I don't remember a lot of things," Sherlock replied.

"Tell me about it," John muttered, getting up. "So are we going together or are you going to pull your Batman card and work alone?"

Sherlock eyed him for a moment before shrugging. "I do think best out loud, and Billy only draws attention when I take him out."

"You named him Billy," John smirked. Sherlock remained quiet, holding the door open. Together they made their way downstairs, quiet as mice so as not to bother Mrs Hudson, and gently shut the door behind them.


End file.
